


carry each other

by rosyjuly



Category: DCU
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24648037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosyjuly/pseuds/rosyjuly
Summary: “How are you feeling?” Clark asked, and that was when Bruce noticed over his shoulder Jordan casually leaning against the doorframe. He grunted, partly because his head was swimming, partly because he had no particular interest of discussing his weakened state with Hal fucking Jordan in the room. What was he even doing in the Cave?He might had said the last part out loud, because Clark cleared his throat awkwardly. Something flickered on Jordan’s face, but he masked it quickly, pushing himself off the wall.“I’ll let you have the room,” he said, tapping the doorframe once, twice, as if he was waiting for reassurance that he shouldn’t go, that his presence was welcome.
Relationships: Hal Jordan/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 56
Kudos: 243





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so in the past two days i got super immersed in this pairing and the possibility for ANGST and then this idea came. hopefully this is, like, the first of many chapters.  
>   
> disclaimer: none of the characters but all mistakes are mine. also i have never in my life read a JL comic so my apologies for any mischaracterization. oh this is also my first time writing in the past tense. so bear with me.  
>   
> oh yeah: title is from “carry each other” by Leagues, which is too much of a coincidence isn’t it?

Apparently everyone thought that a little short-term memory loss here and there suddenly made you incapable to function. Dick came to the Manor. With Jason in tow, which would imply that things were horrific, when Bruce only had a mild concussion. This whole thing was blown severely out of proportion. 

Bruce dutifully sipped at the tea Alfred had set down in front of him. What’s a man got to do to get some black tea in this house? This was the herbal blend that he would bring upstairs if any of the kids were struggling with a cold. Unlikely to boost his memory, though, not that he’d share this with Alfred. 

Jason took one look at him, in that impassive fashion that Bruce had had to grown accustomed to, and asked Alfred if there was any chance he could have some leftovers. Bruce was so grateful for the first sign of normality of the day that he didn’t even feel bad at Jason’s carefully curated nonchalance. 

“Ignore him,” Dick said, pulling up a chair. Because Bruce was confined to a bed, quite literally, by the blankets that Alfred had arranged. “He was worried, I swear. That’s why he came over.” 

Jason snorted. “Right,” he said, taking the tray from Alfred, not without struggle. “Whatever, Dickie. I’m just here for the food.” 

“Would you care for some soup, Master Bruce?” 

After grudgingly agreeing to some chicken soup, Bruce shot Dick a suffering glance. 

“Could you all stop treating me like an invalid.” 

“You have a concussion, Bruce,” Dick reminded him in that awfully soft voice that nobody wanted their kid to use. “And, from what I’m hearing, you’re missing a good eight months in your head.” 

Bruce’s head snapped up, which now seemed like a bad idea, because white spots were clouding his vision. He blinked a few times, willing them to disappear. “Who told you that?” When Dick didn’t answer, he pressed -- he’d specifically told Alfred to not mention the memory loss to the kids, he’d wanted to let them know personally. Or not. He hadn’t really made up his mind on that one. “Dick.” 

Dick sighed. “Okay, but can you promise that you won’t be mad?” Bruce didn’t dignify to make false promises. “That’s what I thought,” Dick said with an eyeroll. “It was Hal, okay?” 

“Hal _Jordan_?” Bruce asked incredulously. He wanted to ask why Jordan would even know about his current state, but this, he knew. 

When he had come to, Clark was sitting in the chair at his bedside. Clark, who’d probably noticed the second his breathing pattern changed and indicated wakefulness, was offering him water, in one of those pathetic white plastic cups that Leslie insisted on using with patients. With a grateful nod, Bruce had took it, glad that his hands hadn’t been shaking. Talk about small mercies.

“How are you feeling?” Clark had asked, and that had been when Bruce noticed over his shoulder Jordan casually leaning against the doorframe. He’d grunted, partly because his head had been swimming, partly because he’d had no particular interest of discussing his weakened state with Hal fucking Jordan in the room. What was he even doing in the Cave? 

He might had said the last part out loud, because Clark cleared his throat awkwardly. Something had flickered on Jordan’s face, but he’d masked it quickly, pushing himself off the wall. 

“I’ll let you have the room,” he’d said, tapping the doorframe once, twice, as if he was waiting for reassurance that he shouldn’t go, that his presence was welcome. 

Obviously, Bruce had not offered that. 

“The audacity,” Bruce growled, ignoring Dick’s protests about Jordan’s worries and how he had acted out of goodwill. “He had no right to interfere.” 

“He didn’t want to interfere,” Dick shook his head vehemently. “He was just worried, B, I swear.” Trust Dick to swear that everyone was _worried_. As if Jordan even cared. “He sounded terrified.” So it was Jordan who roused the kids out of bed, probably right after they’d gotten home from patrol. This was looking worse and worse. 

“Really. I pass out and Jordan makes the executive decision to wake you up when you are in Blüdhaven. Are you sure it was me who hit his head?”

“He actually called Doctor Thompkins, first, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, carefully balancing a tray with two steaming bowls. Behind him, Jason was carrying a bread basket and his own plate. “And after the Doctor, he called me, to prepare the Cave for your treatment.” 

“I’m fine,” Bruce repeated for the umpteenth time for the day. Christ, it wasn’t even morning yet. The soup did smell heavenly, though. Hopefully Jason had left some of the olive ciabatta. 

“He had been most helpful to get you swift medical attention,” continued Alfred, ignoring him. “He gave Doctor Thompkins the medical scans of his ring, and it was him who figured out that you have amnesia.” 

“Short-term memory loss,” Bruce corrected him on autopilot. 

Alfred lifted an eyebrow and handed him a spoon. 

“Is eight months really what we consider ‘short-term’, Master Bruce?” 

Bruce gritted his teeth. This was going to be a long recovery. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand we are back!   
> thank you all very much for the lovely comments and kudos and bookmarks! this chapter is a bit longer. hal makes an appearance!

He managed to strong-arm Dick and Alfred into going back to sleep, purely in the metaphorical sense. He would never admit it, but he wasn’t feeling up to par. Jason, on the other hand, flopped down in the armchair in an impossible pose. 

“Are you going to try and send me to my room?” he asked with an arched eyebrow, and Bruce sighed. He wanted to, but he knew that Jason wouldn’t set foot in his old room. He’d brought it up once, suggested that they could redo the room, but Jason’s reaction had been curt and vehement and he’d gone out of his way to avoid Bruce for three months. So, no, Bruce wouldn’t say it. 

“Good,” Jason grinned, “now go to sleep. I’ll wake you in an hour.” 

It was kind of nice, Bruce thought, falling asleep knowing that Jason was there, watching over him.

Jason indeed shook him awake some time after that. Bruce obediently took the meds, gulped down a glass of water, and passed out promptly. 

He didn’t remember the next few times, but when he woke up properly to the hand on his ankle, fresh tea was steaming on the nightstand. It smelled earthy, which sounded pleasant enough, but it still tasted absolutely vile. 

Jason eyed him rather smugly, flipping his book shut. 

“Enjoying your breakfast, Bruce?” 

“How can I bribe you into bringing me some green tea?”

“Nothing you can offer will top the satisfaction of watching you drink that shit,” Jason cackled. “How the turntables!” And then he cleared his throat, dropping his voice to a hoarse, deep parody of Bruce: “This will boost your immune system, Jason. You ought to listen to Alfred.” 

Bruce scowled, but then Alfred himself pushed the door open, rolling in the breakfast cart, Dick on his heels. They all settled down to eat, with minimal fussing over Bruce, which he appreciated. 

“So, there’s one thing I’ve been wondering about,” Dick said, munching on his omelet. “I didn’t pick up on your distress signal last night.” 

Bruce shrugged. He surely wasn’t equipped to answer that question, given that he had no memory of the last months. He’d have to review the files of the last eight months, to be up to date with his investigations. The thought of catching up and finding out that he had God knows how many new cases open was giving him a headache already. 

“Of course you didn’t,” said Jason, but before Dick could get angry, he continued: “Because there wasn’t one.” Well, that explained some of it. 

“Then how did Hal know?” And now Dick was looking at him, all doe eyed. Not knowing what to say, Bruce held up his hands. “Doesn’t he live over in Coast City?” 

It was Jason who spoke, again. “He’s been around, recently.” 

“What?” 

“No way,” Bruce said, gripping his toast harder than necessary. “I told him to stay out of Gotham.” 

“Whatever,” Jason shrugged, topping off his coffee. “I’m just saying, Lantern probably helped you out on investigations or whatever. I saw you partoling together once or twice.” 

“Me? With  _ Jordan _ ?” Jordan was not just practically, but literally and indisputably the last member of the League that Bruce would care to share anything non-League related. Hell, he often had trouble with League business, when it came to Jordan. That man was a nuisance, in and out of uniform. 

“Christ, don’t get your panties in a twist, I’m just telling you what I know. Which, by the way, you’re  _ welcome _ .” 

“Language.” 

Bruce was under strict orders to rest and avoid screens, so he watched Dick with a certain extent of envy when his comm went off and he had to excuse himself. To his surprise, Jason wandered back to the room after carrying the dishes to the kitchen. Draping himself all over the armchair, his spine twisted in a way that couldn’t be comfortable, he picked his book back up. Curious to see what Jason was reading, Bruce shifted sightly. He still couldn’t make out the title. 

“Very subtle, Bruce,” Jason said, unimpressed as ever. He hadn’t even looked up from the page. 

“What book is it?” 

“I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t the Gotham Book Club. Or have you taken to organizing them for the greying old ladies?”

“Can you at least put on some music. Anything you like.” 

So that wasn’t his wisest decision of the day: very soon it turned out that Jason had no problem bobbing his head along explicit rap songs and reading his book. Thank God, Alfred popped in a few minutes later and reminded them of Leslie’s strict orders to avoid loud noise as well. 

-

“Far be it from me to tell you how to live your life, Spooky, but you might wanna consider not so obviously hating that Jason is cool with me.” 

“Hal Jordan, master of pedagogy and raising children.” 

“I’m just saying, Bats, it might do good to not scowl at him for wanting to talk to a fellow former problem child.” 

“Jason was never a problem child,” Bruce said through his teeth, willing himself to not lose his temper. It was a losing battle, as always, when it came to Jordan. 

“But he thinks he was.”

“Since you’re such a fucking expert in our family history, how come you think I was such a good kid?” 

“I never said you were, Spooky,” Jordan said, completely unbothered by Bruce’s icy tone. He folded himself down on the chair, spreading his legs a little. “But you have the self-righteous aura of one. You and Dick, too. So maybe Jason sometimes wants a problem kid, yeah?”

“Why were  _ you _ a problem child?” 

“Oh, this and that,” Jordan waved dismissively. “Anyway. Not what I’m here for.” 

“Do remind me why you’re here,” Bruce deadpanned, but Jordan didn’t raise for that bait, either. Huh. These past eight months must have been formative. Maybe Jordan took his advice and started practicing anger management. 

“Dick called me,” Jordan shrugged, “that you’re awake and everything. And that I should come over, see if I can jog your memory.” 

Exactly what Bruce needed. 

“Right. So what were you doing in Gotham yesterday?” 

“You asked me to help out in an investigation,” Jordan said slowly, as if searching for the right words. “We’ve been working on the case for a few months now. A new drug cartel popped up. They have ties all over the states, but they’re operating out of Gotham.”

Bruce nodded and crossed his arms, suddenly grateful that Jordan hadn’t shown up in the first three days when he was still confined to a bed. He still had to take it easy, but at least he was able to leave his room now, and facing Jordan in the Cave was not too out of the ordinary.. Clark, he hadn’t minded too much, the man knew when to leave him alone. Unlike some people. But he was under strict orders to limit his screen time, and going through his cases was a hassle. 

“You doing okay?” Jordan’s eyes were searching, but for what, Bruce didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. 

“Fine,” he replied shortly. “We got into a fight, or what?” 

“Yeah, those French goons cornered us in an alley. Took out an HMG and some pretty neat grenades, I barely had time to pull up a shield. One of them got behind us, though.” He was watching Bruce with those brown eyes, full of remorse. “You were busy taking out some fucker on the roof. I didn’t see what he hit you with, but you went down pretty fast.” Jordan licked his lips. He looked uncomfortable for the first time since he’d stepped into the Cave. Not even Bruce snapping at him when he’d found them conversing with Jason rattled him. “Sorry.” 

“Not your fault.” 

“Yes, well.” Jordan gave a shaky laugh. “Debatable.” 

“It’s fine. Jordan. We all know what we’re getting into. If anything, it sounds like a rookie mistake on my part.” Why was he trying to comfort Hal Jordan? 

“You sure you’re okay?” Jordan asked again. 

“You don’t look too hot yourself,” Bruce said sharply instead of answering. Huh. Jordan actually looked worse to wear than usual: the ratty bomber jacket was hanging on his frame, his eyes were tired and baggy. “You trying to copy Oliver with that sad excuse of a beard?” 

Jordan snorted and run a hand over his chin. The tips of his ears were pink. Curious. 

“Please, Bats. We both know you’d be all over this.” 

“Right,” said Bruce, dragging the vowel long enough to indicate what an utterly ridiculous idea that was. One that he categorically refused to entertain. “Let’s go over that case.” 


	3. Chapter 3

Truth to be told, Bruce wasn’t really worried about the amnesia thing, not just yet. Dick said it was because he was in denial, which was bullshit; Dick was just being overly protective. Leslie hadn’t looked too concerned, she said that it was likely to come back to him in bits and pieces. And anyway, it wasn’t much of an issue: Bruce had always kept very detailed files on, well, everything. 

A lot of the cases he’d been working on had been closed, since. Not that now there was a lack of them, but it didn’t feel bad, to go through them, seeing that most of his hunches were confirmed and the perpetrators behind bars. 

What made his heart contort painfully in his chest were the boys, rather. Damian was the age where eight months meant he was now an inch taller, his limbs longer. He was truly in the lanky teenager phase, now. Of course, he’d taken the news in that stoic, matter-of-factly was of his; he’d nodded calmly, asked a few reasonable questions and then let Alfred steer him upstairs for lunch. 

And then there was Jason. He seemed to be more at peace with him; but then, peace wasn’t the right word. Tolerant, maybe. Tentatively tolerant, only Jason was anything but tentative. Bruce wanted to know what nudged him towards this reluctant truce, if it was him to finally did something right, if something entirely else had happened. But he couldn’t ask, not if he didn’t want to snap that olive branch. 

Out of curiosity, he tracked down the security feed of the fight with Jordan once the man had left. Hacking into the database of the private surveillance system of one of the penthouses was a matter of minutes, these people ought to upgrade the security measures. 

It’d surprised him, how solemn Jordan had looked when talking about the fight, as if he blamed himself. Jordan had glossed over the reasons why they were working together so closely; it was unlike Bruce, to involve someone in his investigations like that who wasn’t part of his family. 

Jordan had been accurate about the fight, at least. From this angle, Bruce could make out themselves if not the goons pretty well. He and Jordan had always been great together in a fight, but here, it was on another level. They were in perfect sync; the Bruce on the screen evidently trusted Lantern with his life, ducking without a second thought from a roof and Lantern catching him smoothly. He saw the moment Jordan must have spotted the HMG because he’d turned his back to Bruce, pulling up a hefty shield to protect them from the bullets. On the screen, Batman was shooting batarangs at the shooters at the other roof, when someone dressed in all black had appeared out if thin air and swung something at his head. He’d gone down almost immediately, and Jordan had whirled around, maybe in shock, maybe in surprise, sending a green pulse against his assaulter and knocking them out. Then Jordan had pulled a stealth grenade from his utility belt with a constructed hand and hurled it at the goons, and wasn’t that weird, that Jordan just _knew_ where exactly to reach without a moment’s hesitation. As soon as they had been hidden behind the thick layer of smoke, Jordan bracketed them within a protective orb and he dashed over to Bruce. He had looked frantic in his movements, hovering over his unconscious body, but he hadn’t dared to touch, not until the faint green light of the ring indicated that the medical scan had finished. And then, Jordan had kneeled, scooped Bruce into his arms and took off, the shielding orb moving with them. 

Bruce had no way of tracking their further movements as Jordan had preferred flying over the buildings rather than maneuvering between them, and he had seen enough. Jordan had said that they’d gotten cocky, which he had to agree with: it had been a rookie mistake to be ambushed like that. If Jordan hadn’t been with him, who knew what could have ensued. 

He pulled up the security feed of the entrance of the Cave, saw Alfred waiting. He’d been anxious, he could tell, by the rigidness of his stance. Jordan had flown in, Bruce still in his arms. It would have made more sense, to float him along, Bruce thought. This looked — intimate, Jordan’s hands curling around him protectively. Jordan had dissolved the mask the moment the entrance had closed behind them, upon his face there was a whirlwind of emotions: guilt, shame, anger. He hadn’t even waited for Alfred to show him the way, just bowed his head quickly and floated inside, probably towards the medical room that Bruce had woken up in, after. 

Strange, Bruce thought. He hadn’t foreseen such an intense reaction from Jordan. Clark, yes, Barry, too. No member of the League would take an injured… ally lightly, but the devastation etched deep into the lines of Jordan’s face were unexpected. It hadn’t been his fault, anyway, Bruce should have kept an eye out. He patrolled alone, for heaven’s sake, and to be ambushed like that was… Christ, it was embarrassing. 

At some point during the last eight months, he and Jordan had became… friendly, he decided. That left a funny taste in his mouth. It wasn’t the strangest thing that could have happened to him, far from it. Bruce had always known that Jordan was intelligent and compassionate under his rashness, and he appreciated the stubbornness that almost matched his own. He’d gotten used to their clashes, however; and with their dedication it was sometimes easier to let professional disagreement prevent the birth of a friendship. Bruce sometimes still couldn’t believe that he and Clark became friends simply because Clark decided that they would. Well, Jordan was at least as, if not more bullheaded than Clark. 

-

It took two arguments, one with Leslie and then one with Alfred, but he did make it to the next League meeting. 

(“I’d really prefer if you didn’t use the zeta tubes just so soon,” Leslie had said, and Bruce hadn’t even tried to hide his scowl. 

“I can’t just pull out of the League. I must be there.” 

“Then call them,” Leslie had suggested, but the look on her face had indicated that she know this was a pointless battle. 

“We don’t have reception up there, Leslie, you know that, it’s not like I can just send them a Zoom invite.” 

Alfred had only looked at him, not even trying to hide his disappointment. Yeah, that had definitely been worse.) 

Their joint effort, plus Damian’s tantrum about his giant of a dog and his presence in the house, or lack of it, had lead to Bruce being late. Which he loathed with a passion, but he gritted his teeth; being late to a League meeting was still preferable over missing another one, so. 

When he walked into the meeting room, all heads turned. Jordan, who was standing, apparently deep into some explanations about the Corps, judging by the overwhelming greenness of the screen. Bruce felt the hard stare on him, but he just nodded and walked over to his seat, pulled the chair out and sat. 

“What are you doing here,” Jordan said. 

“It appears that we are in a meeting.” 

Jordan made an impatient sound. “Shouldn’t you be on bedrest? You were supposed to take it easy—’ 

“Lantern. Are you my doctor? Or any kind of medical professional who I’d consult?” 

“No, but—” 

“Are you my girlfriend?” Bruce asked, just to drive the point home about pestering him about his health. Jordan froze. Bruce tilted his head so he could study as Jordan paled, the knuckles on his tablet whitening. 

“Batman,” Diana spoke, in that warning tone of hers, that most people, smartly, backed down from, but Bruce ignored her, kept staring at Jordan. 

“Most decidedly not,” Jordan said, in a strange, quiet voice. Bruce ignored the look Clark was sending his way, too.

“Then stop nagging me,” he said curtly. Jordan opened his mouth, probably to argue or to insult him back, but Diana rose, silencing him.

“Gentlemen,” she said, her tone giving it away that she thought they were anything but, “this is a place of business, for the lack of a better word, the last I checked. So we all ought to maintain a respectful environment.” Bruce grunted in assent. Jordan gave a half-hearted nod, though he still did not look calmer. “Batman, it’s good to have you back. Lantern is updating us on the situation at Pegasus II.” 

“Yeah, thanks, Diana,” Jordan said, aiming a smile at the room. “Let me just get back to the previous slide, so Spooky here can catch up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, it has indeed occurred to me that i seem to be incapable of writing chapters with balanced dialogue or description. what can we do? plan better? uh-uh.  
> thank you all very much for the lovely feedback, i love reading your comments!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm super hangover so this might be full of spelling mistakes. sorry for the late update! hope you'll enjoy. thank you for the lovely feedback on this fic :')

“Batman,” Clark spoke when they adjourned the meeting. Bruce was busying himself on his pad, checking updates and files that did not need to be looked at. Jordan had been the first to flee the room, Barry on his heels. Diana shot him a meaningful look and then engaged Oliver in conversation, leading him to the door. 

“Yes,” he said when they were alone and it became evident that Clark was waiting for his answer. Clark sighed, but really, he could have expected that Bruce wasn’t going to make this easy for him. 

“Bruce, I understand your behaviour to an extent, I do. However. Can you take it — easy. Easier on Hal.” 

Had he not been wearing the cowl, Bruce would have pinched the bridge of his nose. Instead he just sighed, finally forcing himself to look up.

“I know. I was out of line,” he said, and he could see Clark’s relief in his clear, blue eyes.

“You and him… had been getting along better,” Clark said, slowly, as if he was carefully contemplating every word. “He was speaking from that place of camaraderie, I think.” 

“I’ll talk to him.” The ‘and apologize’ part remained unsaid, but they both knew it was implied. Clark smiled at him, squeezed his shoulder for a second. 

“Good.” 

Bruce stayed in the meeting room for another minute, the tips of his fingers resting on the table. He’d never admit it, but Leslie was right: he could already feel a migraine starting at the base of his skull, and gritting his teeth through the entire meeting did not help. 

Jordan had a tendency to avoid communal areas when he was — upset, Bruce’s brain unhelpfully supplied, except Jordan wouldn’t get emotional over Bruce’s crassness. Anyhow, Jordan was agitated, so he would be in his private quarters, Bruce reasoned, and he reasoned correctly. Jordan opened the door at the first chime, and then he stared a little. Bruce ignored it, all of a sudden he found himself feeling strangely warm. He made a mental note to measure his temperature, once in private. 

“Lantern,” he nodded, and then: “Flash,” noticing Barry was in the room, too, now standing up and stretching his neck.

“Hey, B,” Barry smiled, though it did not quite reach his eyes. He patted Jordan on the waist as he passed by him — it didn’t go unnoticed by Bruce how Jordan hadn’t made much of an effort to step out of his way. He and Barry had always looked comfortable being in each other’s space. “I better go find Clark. Catch you later.”

“He and Clark get closer since I was — since?” 

Jordan took mercy on him and ignored the slip. He snorted and said, “Oh, you have _no_ idea,” and stepped aside to let Bruce in. This was already going way better than Bruce had anticipated. The doors slid closed behind them soundlessly. Jordan gestured at the chairs and flopped down in one, swinging his long legs over the armrest. Bruce took a hesitant seat in front of him, debating whether he should push back the cowl. 

“Look, Jordan—” 

“Hal.” 

Bruce blinked. “I’m… sorry?” 

“You call me Hal, these days.” 

_I do?_ He almost asked but thought better of it, because Jo— Hal’s face was a strange mix of guarded and vulnerable. In the meeting, he had been wearing his mask, but now his warm, brown eyes were shining without concealment. It was more distracting than Bruce cared to admit. Bruce decided to take it for an olive branch, and to reciprocate it, he peeled back his cowl. Judging by Hal’s small smile, it had been the right decision.

“Hal,” he repeated, the name rolling off his tongue easily. For a few seconds they watched each other in comfortable silence. Hal lifted an eyebrow, almost daring Bruce to go on. “I came here to apologize.” 

“Alright, big guy,” Hal nodded with a grin, making a sweeping gesture as if he was saying _the floor is all yours_. 

“These past days have been… confusing for me,” Bruce said, weighing each word carefully. “But. I should have come to you and ask for clarification about — about our relationship,” although the word did not feel quite right, Bruce exhaled and went on, “Instead of taking out my frustrations on you.” 

Hal shrugged. “I know a thing or two about waking up and suddenly feeling like you don’t fit in your skin anymore.” Bruce, for a reason he could not recall for the life of him, knew with sudden certainty that they’d had this conversation before about Parallax. “You want a drink, B? I reckon something strong would pair well with this.” 

“I wasn’t aware that sommelier was among your hidden talents,” Bruce mused. “But no, thanks. These extra meds Leslie gave me wouldn’t like that very much, I think.” 

“Fair,” Hal sat back down, stretching out his legs once again. “How’s the swelling?”

“Leslie says it’s going down nicely. Also, uh. Alfred said that you’d given her the scans you did with your ring. You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Sure I did, B.”

“You do that a lot, now,” Bruce said carefully, “calling me ‘B’. Did you pick that up in the Cave?”

“From your kids, you mean.” Hal crossed his arms on his chest. At Bruce’s reluctant nod, he huffed. “Do you really loathe the idea that they might like me this much?” 

“Sometimes I feel like they might like you more than they like me,” Bruce said quietly. The fight went out of Hal’s body.

“You’re talking about Jason.” It wasn’t a question, but Bruce nodded all the same. “Bruce—” 

“I know it’s my own fault, but I hate it,” Bruce said, aching and miserable. “He hates me and he doesn’t want me in his life, but you waltz into the Cave and ask how Roy is doing and suddenly he’s willing to chat after ignoring me all day.” 

“You two have — reconciled, somewhat,” Hal spoke after a few seconds of silence. “He’s in the Manor because he’s worried about you, but now that you don’t remember that your relationship has stabilized, much less the how or the why… it’s difficult for him, too.” 

“You know what happened, don’t you.” Hal gave him a slow nod. “Tell me.” 

But now Hal was shaking his head, his eyes somber. “Bruce, I can’t.” 

“He’s my son, Hal!”

“I can’t tell you,” Hal repeated. “It’s his secret, not mine.” 

“But I already knew it,” Bruce tried to reason, though he knew the justification was lacking in, well, everything.

“Leslie said your memories should come back soon, right?” Hal asked, not unkindly. 

“Exactly, so you can just tell me now. A few days won’t make a difference.” 

“And if you won’t remember?” 

Bruce whipped his head up so quickly his vision blurred. Nobody, _nobody_ has suggested that his memory loss might be permanent. He hadn’t let himself think about it, hadn’t even considered the possibility. And now Hal was just throwing it out there carelessly, as if he wasn’t talking about eight months of Bruce’s goddamn life. 

Without a word, he stood up, his cape crackling from the sudden movement. 

“Then I just betrayed his trust _and_ took your chance of reconciling on your own terms.”

Hal spoke just as he reached the door and Bruce stopped there, resting a palm against the smooth panel. He listened to Hal’s steps as he approached him, wondering for whose sake was Hal foregoing his usual stealth. 

“Bruce, believe me. I’m the last person who wants you to lose those months forever,” Hal said quietly. 

“And why is that?” asked Bruce, hating how raspy his voice sounded with his emotions flooding his chest. 

“You’ll know. Trust me on this. You’ll know, okay?” Hal sounded just as wrecked, almost as if he was urging Bruce. 

But there wasn’t a way he could push through the thick fog clouding his brain, no gadget that could cut through, nobody that could help. That would help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please keep in mind that the rating went from teen to explicit with the new chapter!

Something about the conversation nagged Bruce. When he found himself still thinking about it the next day, he sighed and gave in. He waited until Alfred had appeared with the late-afternoon tray, still missing his beloved tea _and_ coffee, because Alfred was still strict about caffeine consumption when concussed, and, sipping on his lemonade (he did not dare ask if Alfred had somehow switched up his tray with Damian’s), he pulled up the security feed of the Cave. 

Some months ago — which meant over a year ago, now, with the yawning gap in his memory, he’d upgraded the system with facial recognition. That decision was already paying off: he entered the data for Hal, and from eight months worth of footage, there only remained… 

Bruce stared at the screen. During those eight months, Hal had appeared at the Cave on two hundred thirty-eight separate occasions. 

Had he been hosting League meetings here? 

Or was the AI not working properly? 

Just to verify that the facial recognition system was functioning, he searched for Clark, instead: the results were almost instantaneous. Ten times, which seemed realistic; Clark tended to make a monthly appearance, and he had come when Bruce had gotten injured, too. 

Well, that already crossed off two of his safer assumptions, and the remaining one, well...

Bruce searched for the earliest footage and played it sped up and without the audio. On the video, he and Hal were discussing something, occasionally pointing at the computer and Hal pulling up models and constructs of buildings with his ring. So they _had_ been working on a case together, Jason was right about that. But that posed the question: how did Jason know? 

He skipped forward a month, which only meant five recordings. In March, Hal had looked thinner; that, and the three weeks gap of the otherwise more or less regular appearances indicated that he’d been on a mission. Bruce sipped his lemonade mindlessly and watched himself argue about something — likely a miniscule detail that would not warrant this fervor with anyone except for Hal. 

Then he almost choked on his drink, because on the video, Hal was throwing his hands in the air in exasperation and in the next second, he was pulling Bruce in for a punishing, hard kiss with his hand fisted in Bruce’s shirt. 

The shock he felt now was not shared by the Bruce on the screen; that Bruce responded innately with the same ferocity. 

If Bruce had been a nobler person, he would have switched the footage off. Clark would have. Barry, too. Oliver — all right, so Oliver wouldn’t, but Dinah would force him to turn it off, and Diana wouldn’t have even considered watching the security footage instead of asking her teammate. 

But Bruce wasn’t any of them. And thus, he watched: he watched himself pin Hal against the table, he watched them rut and grind against each other, he watched Hal bury his face in the crook of his neck, right up until their grinding stopped, and then Hal pulled back, his face open and sated in a way that ignited his already boiling blood. Only then did Bruce slam a button on the dashboard. The sudden darkness of the Cave hid his flaming face, but did nothing to conceal the array of questions and exclamations in his head. 

He had pulled up the footage to find answers. Instead, he had even more questions, questions that he would need to ask Hal, but it felt impossible to even consider facing the man again. 

It wasn’t that it surprised Bruce. Well. It _did_ surprise him, but not that he and Hal had — hooked up, had sex, whatever. That part was fine. But that it had been Hal who initiated it, that, that was unexpected. Granted, Bruce had always considered his attraction to Hal Jordan a mosquito; annoying, ever persistent and downright impossible to get rid of. Sometimes you’d think that it was gone because you hadn’t heard its buzz for a while, and then it’d land on your face. And to eliminate it, you’d have to punch yourself, and the mosquito would still escape intact, somehow. 

So it was safe to say that Bruce had never planned on acting on said attraction, and he had indeed not, his brain supplied helpfully. Maybe Hal had just wanted to shut him up, or to fuck the tension out of their systems. Bruce did not know. 

Bruce didn’t know anything apart from the sudden, sharp desperation to rediscover how Hal Jordan tasted. 

It was six thirty-nine in the evening. 

He went upstairs, sat and talked with Duke and Damian during their short dinner, and left for Coast City at seven oh-five. 

He knew Hal’s address just like he knew Oliver’s or Barry’s: he had memorized all League Members’ home addresses, in case of emergencies. This was hardly one, but never say that Bruce Wayne came unprepared.

Hal was shirtless when he opened the door, his mouth forming the prettiest O in his evident surprise at seeing Bruce on his doormat. 

“Come in,” he ushered Bruce inside. Bruce wondered: was it the neighbors Hal would not want to know, or was he a welcome guest here? He took the necessary precautions that usually allowed him to go unnoticed: his dirty Yankees cap was pulled low, the bomber jacket he shrugged on was soft with age and faded in its color. So maybe it wasn’t that Hal worried that the neighbors would see Bruce Wayne, but to see a man on Hal’s doorstep just short before nine. Huh. That was a belated revelation to have. 

Meanwhile, Hal had closed the door behind him and was pulling on a tank top. It didn’t do much covering: either Hal had picked up the wrong shirt in the locker room, punished it with the wrong laundry program, or he just enjoyed too-tight, too-short clothing because Bruce could see his navel and damn, was it distracting. 

Hal cleared his throat and Bruce snapped his eyes up to his face. Hal definitely looked more flushed than when he had opened the door. Bruce wanted to think that that was a good sign. Hal made a pretty picture: back-lit by the telly, in casual clothing, his arm muscles on display. But he wasn’t here to _admire_. 

“I’ve pegged you for more of a sports fan,” Bruce said, just for the sake of breaking the silence, nodding at the telly that was playing some cooking show. 

Hal shrugged. “Yeah, you’ve said that. But football gets me all keyed up. This stuff helps me relax.”

Bruce looked around. He took in the single beer bottle standing on the coffee table, half-full, still damp from condensation, the empty plate with a few crumbs and a scrap of lettuce. The kitchen counters were spotless, the sink scrubbed with a preciseness that spoke measures. Hal’s tidiness both surprised him and it didn’t — it made sense, somehow, but he had expected a bit of a mess, at least, and the realization that his assumptions of Hal did not live up to the reality of him unnerved him. Hal seemed to read him like an open book, and Bruce didn’t know anything of him out of his uniform — hadn’t even _seen_ him out of uniform, until now. He was at a disadvantage. 

“I see you don’t adopt a lot from these shows,” Bruce nodded at the plate, but his words were missing the usual bite. He was suddenly struck by a bright, irking want to take Hal to dinner, to call up the best restaurant in Coast City and drop his name and get a table cleared immediately. Was Hal the type that enjoyed being wined and dined? Then he shook his head slightly, because hell, he was not here to ask Hal for dinner either. 

“You’re doing enough adoptions for the entire League, big guy.” Hal crossed his arms on his chest. “So. You came all over to Coast City just to insult me?”

“No, not really.”

Hal arched an eyebrow. “Okay? Care to share with the class? Why are you here, then?” 

“To do this,” Bruce said, and regulating his breath so it wouldn’t give away his hammering heart, he crossed the room and kissed Hal swiftly on the mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading and your lovely lovely feedback! each kudos, bookmark, subscription and comment makes me so very happy.  
> i think the weekly update is manageable with my current [waves at entire life], so i hope you all are okay with that. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, i apologise, this is terribly late and not even that long. but i hope you'll like it nonetheless!

Low in his throat, Hal made a sound. His hand came to rest on the spot where Bruce’s shoulder met the crook of his neck, its warmth seeping into Bruce’s skin through the light material of his shirt. Then Hal was pushing him away with the same hand, gentle but firm. 

Bruce opened his eyes and let them flicker down to Hal’s mouth, then back up to his eyes: the warm brown gaze had its usual mesmerizing glint and it took all his willpower not to pull him back again. 

“Bruce. What are you doing?” asked Hal in a quiet, somber tone. Bruce had to fight the urge to flinch. Something about the way Hal spoke had made his stomach churn. But he had to play this cool, didn’t he? So he crooked up an eyebrow, half-mocking, half because it might kill him if he was forced to say ‘kissing you’. Hal rolled his eyes but he couldn’t fool Bruce; the tips of his ears had colored pink. “You don’t remember, do you?” 

Bruce shook his head. Hal made a sound, low in his throat, as if he’d suspected as much. 

“Then why are you here?” 

“I saw the tape,” Bruce said, adamant on ignoring the hoarseness of his own voice. “From March, when you—” 

“Kissed you?” Hal offered when he’d trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence. “Did the deed with you?” 

“First of all, that sounds way worse than if you’d said ‘had sex’,” Bruce wrinkled his nose. “What are you, twelve? Second of all — yes, that.” 

Hal hummed. He seemed to have forgotten that his hand was still curling over Bruce’s nape. The clouded look in his eyes indicated that he was thinking hard about something. The feeling that he didn’t know Hal at all returned with vigorous melancholy. Bruce wanted to know what was going on behind those gorgeous eyes, if he was contemplating throwing Bruce out, if coming here had been a mistake. Maybe he had miscalculated. It wasn’t like him, to just drive over to a different city for — for sex? He hadn’t even considered a backup plan or what would really happen after he arrived and propositioned Hal. He’d just assumed that this would work. But he couldn’t even define what  _ work _ would mean, in this situation. Really, coming here was a mistake. He was stupid to dive head first without checking the shallowness of the water. He was stupid, so stupid. 

“So, you watch the tape, watch us have heated but overall pretty mediocre sex, and then you head over here? How many miles is it from Gotham?” Hal said conversationally, unaware of the storm raging inside Bruce. He took a deep breath and opted to ignore it, too, desperate to keep the conversation casual. 

“You know that already, don’t you, Hal.” 

“I’m just saying, you might give a guy the wrong idea,” Hal said, tipping his head back. His hesitancy from when he’d pushed Bruce away had disappeared as swiftly as it had emerged. Now he was contemplating Bruce with hooded eyes, and the rock in the pit of Bruce’s stomach started to melt into a pool of lava. 

“And what would that idea be?” murmured Bruce. Trying to keep up with him. 

“That you want a repeat performance.” And he tilted his head and looked up at Bruce, his gaze scorching yet almost coy, and Bruce just had to lean back in and kiss that plush, inviting mouth of his. This time, Hal’s lips parted and Bruce could lick into his hot, wet mouth. Dimly, he registered that Hal was moving them backwards, one stumbling step a time, but he didn’t bother paying mind to it, too busy snaking his hand under Hal’s shirt, covering as much of the smooth, hot skin as he could. 

They tumbled down on the too small couch, Bruce landing on top of Hal, who groaned, half in pain, half in pleasure, and pulled him closer so he could reach his mouth. It was indeed a repeat performance: they didn’t do much but kiss and rut against each other. But grinding against the hot, hard bulge in Hal’s sweatpants, while one of Hal’s big hands kneaded his ass, urging him on, and the other plastered at the back of his neck… it was not mediocre. It was one of the best Bruce had ever had. 

When he came, Hal panted wetly into his neck and Bruce couldn’t help the moan that slipped past his lips. Hal’s hand left its claimed spot on his nape, but before Bruce could mourn its loss, Hal’s fingers curled gently into his hair and started to pet him. It was a surprisingly gentle gesture, Bruce thought, a bit taken aback by how quiet the afterglow was. And that he could see it as afterglow; on the rare occasions he’d bed someone, he felt uncomfortable after sex, as if the air and the arm of his partner was suffocating him. But this, this was easy. This, he could do. He curled his hand around Hal’s ribcage and soaked up the warmth of his skin. 

Hal stroked his hair with gentle, deft fingers. The hand that pulled up constructs of death as easy as breathing was tender. Bruce splayed his own hand wide over Hal’s ribcage. He wanted to return the kindness. But it felt like mockery, like he was a hoax, ridiculing Hal’s generosity. Hal just hummed in contentment, apparently set on ignoring how Bruce had to be crushing him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
